


Cinder

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blacksmith Roadhog, Briefly Implied Hanzo Shimada/Jamison Fawkes, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Prince Hanzo, Trans Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:16:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: Working in the palace isn't exactly a fun endeavor, but Junkrat gets by. He's got a ball to go to, a handsome prince to meet, and a grumpy blacksmith by his side.





	1. Chapter 1

I recently re-watched Jim Henson’s “The Storyteller” series and then I reread Emma Donoghue’s “The Tale of the Skin” and this is what happened.

* * *

 

The kingdom belonging to the Shimada bloodline was large and prosperous, rich in trade and natural resources. Its green hills and vast forests produced plenty of game and its rivers kept the soil fertile all through the year. The only blight on this hearty land was in its neighbor, the untamed, ruinous sprawl known only as the Wastes, which had been devastated by magic in a great war and now gave rise to strange and unnatural things, both beast and human.

Jamison was from the Wastes, which meant that his only place in polite society was either as a beggar or a thief. He had started off as a thief when he first crossed the border and came to the city, but after one too many scrapes with the law (one of which cost him his right hand) he’d settled for a lowly position in the palace— he scrubbed floors, caught vermin, mucked stalls and did any other grimy job that came up. He clothed himself in a patchwork cloak made from whatever he could get ahold of: rat skins, rags, feathers, leather scraps and bandages across his chest. The overall effect, combined with the layers of filth his work built up on his skin, had earned him the nickname ‘Junkrat’.

It was during one such job, hauling buckets of slop out to the pigpen, that he met Hog. Hog was the blacksmith, his smithy situated just beyond the stables, and he often spent his free time reading in the shade next to the pigs. He claimed it was because the smell of the animals kept people from bothering him (he raised his thick brows meaningfully at Junkrat when he said this, and was ignored), but Jamison was pretty sure it was really because he liked the pigs, and had on more than one occasion seen him reach into the pen to give them a fond pat or scratch under their bristly chins.

Hog was also from the Wastes, but his talent for metalwork and his sheer size (not to mention his penchant for brutal violence) lent him protection from the sort of regular kickings Junkrat was prone to receiving. He was Junkrat’s… ‘friend’ was perhaps not the right term, but it was the one Junkrat liked to use most often. He’d begun stepping in and halting the beatings out of a sense of solidarity, and the wretch had latched onto his enormous countryman like an affectionate limpet.

Certain gossipy individuals, envious of his smithing talent, made comments about Hog’s appearance, saying that he must have had Orcish blood in him. Junkrat was quick to deal with such talk; he always had a goodly supply of rats, lice and spiders about, and people that badmouthed Hog soon found their rooms and beds infested.

Junkrat spent as much of his time as possible following Hog around, hanging about his smithy, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Hog had at first tried to dissuade him from this behavior through threats and intimidation and occasionally picking the young idiot up by the scruff of his smelly cloak and flinging him into the nearest pond or hay bale, but nothing worked and eventually he became accustomed to the constant chatter and crooked grin of the other man. When he ate his lunch under the trees he would bring extra, pushing half a pie or a thick wedge of cheese into Junkrat’s hand and muttering that he needed more meat on his bones. Junkrat would snicker and go red under his pelts and dirt, settle onto the ground next to his companion and scarf the food down in big choking bites in between his stream of babble.

It was during one of these shared meals that Junkrat first saw the prince.

They were sitting side by side under a twisted, ancient cork tree when the procession went by: guards in shining armor, a cluster of advisors and courtiers with strange hats that marked their status, and in the middle of it all, resplendent in silk brocade and gleaming jewels, strode Prince Hanzo. Walking a few paces behind him was the palace chef, and toward the back of the group with the courtiers was the younger prince, Genji, engaged in energetic conversation with a visiting dignitary.

Hog snorted derisively at the display of wealth and opulence in such an incongruous place, leaned over to nudge Junkrat and say something about it, but when he glanced down at him the words died in his throat. Jamison was staring from under his patchy fur hood, eyes wide and awestruck, face lit up with a kind of enchantment Hog had never seen before. He followed Junkrat’s gaze and realized he was watching the elder prince, following his every movement as he and his group made their way toward the pigpen. The sunlight caught the gold pin in Hanzo’s hair and lit up his dark eyes as he turned his head, and Junkrat swallowed hard and Hog felt something in his stomach twist.

The regal party came to a halt at the fence of the pen, and Prince Hanzo cast a contemplative look at the animals before nodding the chef forward and gesturing to the largest one. “That one will do for the royal table.”

Hog’s heart sank; the prince had selected his favorite pig, a boar he’d named Pai, to be slaughtered and cooked.

The chef nodded obsequiously and opened his mouth to speak, but a piercing voice interrupted before he had the chance. “Aw, not Pai! Can’t ya just have fish instead?”

Hog froze, and all the courtiers turned their heads toward the source of the offending cry. Junkrat looked simultaneously startled at himself for speaking and stubbornly adamant about his stance on the royal dinner. “I mean,” he continued, oblivious to the looks of shock, indignation and disgust he was receiving, “It ain’t even pork season. And that pig’s a darling, he is, so fulla love and personality, more like a pet than a porkchop! Couldn’t ya let ‘im off the hook and have, I dunno, turnips or something?”

There was a stunned silence. The looks on the nobles’ faces were a perfect picture of horror and revulsion, aside from Prince Genji, who looked beside himself with delight at the awkward situation.

Hanzo, who had not moved yet, turned his gaze toward Junkrat for the briefest of moments, his nose wrinkling disdainfully. “A creature as low as you has no business speaking to a prince, let alone telling one what he may do.”

The courtiers laughed in agreement, and Hog felt Junkrat shrink in on himself, watched his face flush with shame as he felt the full scorn of the higher-born, as the derision sank in. For the first time since Hog had known him, Junkrat seemed to be aware of his status, of the soot and grime that covered him, of his missing limbs and the stinking pelts he wore.

Hog assumed that would be the end of it, but he watched Jamison watch the prince stride away with that terrible, fierce longing in his orange eyes and he felt that strange painful twist in his gut again.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day it was announced that the royal family would be holding a ball, a spectacular event that would last three nights. Foreign nobles were already arriving in their beautiful carriages, princes and princesses and tzars and empresses, all with trains of attendants and extra carriages dedicated entirely to clothes and jewelry. Hog and Junkrat watched them arrive, but where he would normally have rolled his eyes and made comments on the ridiculousness of all that excess, Junkrat was quiet and gazed wistfully up at the parade of glittering coaches, sighed and stared up at the prince’s window and then down at himself in his tattered rags.

Hog couldn’t bear it. He should have been glad of the silence, but it wrenched at him, just as the newly-empty space in the pigpen did. As the ball drew near, he retreated into his smithy, working long hours into the night, the sparks and smoke flying up from the chimney like a spell.

Junkrat was busy too, overwrought with demands for cleaner floors, cleaner rooms, clean stalls for the hundreds of additional horses, fires stoked in every room at every hour, kicks aimed his way if he wasn’t fast enough about it. When he finally had a moment to himself, he would crawl into his cot in the kitchen and collapse.

Finally the eve of the ball arrived, the palace a whirlwind of activity. Nobles and royals in all their finery descended the stairs to the ballroom, brilliant gems at their throats and wrists, fine wine in their glasses. The tables groaned with food of dreamlike extravagance, the crystal chandeliers glowed with ethereal light high above the marble floors. The servants stood in neat, orderly rows at the ready, fresh and crisp in clean linen uniforms.

Far below the dazzle of the festivities, worn and weary and banished from sight, Junkrat dragged himself back to the empty kitchen, grabbed at the thin blanket of his cot and felt something unexpectedly hard underneath it. Confused and wary, he tugged the blanket back and saw shining silk and the glint of metal: clothes, a suit and cloak as pale and gleaming as the moon, delicately stitched and embroidered, a single slipper for his left foot. And under the costume, even more miraculous: a pair of gloves, beautiful and silver, the right one heavy and stiff with jointed metal cleverly hidden under fabric to fill the empty space of his own missing hand.

Heart pounding and eyes wide, he hauled a bucket of water in from the river, heated it over the fire. He shrugged off his pelts and bandages for the first time in years, stretched out his crooked back to stand straight and tall, scrubbed himself clean and pulled on the lovely new clothes (which were neatly cut to fall low on his right leg and conceal the peg) and the gloves. To his delight and amazement, the torso of the costume was discreetly padded and shaped to flatten his chest without the pinching, restrictive pain of the bandages he normally used. He spun around, giddily admiring himself, shining brighter than the moon outside, and then scampered up the stairs.

The ball was well underway, the guests dancing and drinking and feasting and talking, while in the middle of it all sat Prince Hanzo, his chin in his hand, bored with the festivities already. He rolled his eyes every time Genji whirled by with a new dance partner, waved away every hopeful potential that approached him. Suddenly, the crowd parted, murmuring and whispering, as a stranger dressed all in silver and shining like the moon made his way into the room.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, when Hog ate his lunch (by the laundry lines; he couldn’t stand to be near the pigpen at the moment), he overheard a cluster of maids speaking excitedly as they hung sheets to dry, giggling about the mysterious stranger that had appeared at the ball. _Tall_ , said one, and _Handsome_ said another. _Radiant_ , said a third, _like the moon_. They all agreed with one another as the sheets flapped in the wind, and then they spoke of how Prince Hanzo, known for his icy heart and haughty demeanor, had been struck dumb and enchanted at the sight of the newcomer.

“The look on his face,” whispered one, “I thought he’d propose then and there!”

“I bet he wishes he had,” replied another. “Word is he never got the stranger’s name, and cannot now find him anywhere!” 

“Do you think he’ll be there again tonight?” The third asked, and they all began debating on the subject as they picked up their baskets and made their way back into the palace. Hog swallowed his mouthful of stew and set the rest aside, his appetite gone.

Meanwhile, Junkrat went about his tasks with a dreamy smile, his heart full to bursting under his filthy rags, his eyes agleam with the lights of the ballroom. He barely heard the curses thrown at him, barely felt the kicks aimed his way as he raked the ashes from gilded fireplaces and scrubbed the scuffs left by dancing feet on marble tiles. He wished he had time to go outside, to find Hog and tell his friend about the strange and wonderful thing that had happened, but once again he was worked from dawn to dusk without pause.

That night, when the palace was once more lit up with celebration and he went to crawl into his cot, already dreaming of the night before, to his awe he found a second set of clothes: dark satin the color of the night sky, glittering with a thousand tiny pinpricks of light like the stars above. His hand shook with excitement as he washed himself as quickly as possible and slipped into the new garments, finishing the look with a second pair of matching gloves and slipper. Giggling happily, he beamed at his reflection in a bright copper pot and then made his way upward.

Just as he had the night before, Prince Hanzo kept himself separate. He sat stiff-backed in his chair (though he was perched considerably closer to the edge of said chair than he had been before), drumming his fingers against the rim of his glass and glaring steadily at the far wall of the ballroom. Occasionally his gaze would begin to drift toward the open doors of the massive hall, at which point Prince Genji would catch his brother’s eye and grin with smug delight, which in turn made Hanzo snap back to glaring at the wall.

As the clock struck nine, there was a ripple of surprise through the crowd, a susurration. Hanzo’s head whipped around to look at the sparkling figure weaving through the room, and in the next breath he was out of his chair and striding forward, one hand held out and the beginning of a smile lighting his face.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry this chapter took forever, I am so damn sick right now so this chapter might get edited when I come out of my feverish daze. Let me know how you like it, as always!

* * *

 

Junkrat wanted to wait and watch for the arrival of the third outfit, but the cleaning and tending and sweeping consumed his day once again, and by the time he made it back to his corner in the kitchen, the third and final night of the ball was well underway.

He lifted the blanket and gasped at the sight of it: gold-spun silk as bright as the sun, detailed with lace as delicate as a spider’s web and, in a cheeky nod to his typical garb, a jacket lined with fur softer than anything he’d worn before. This time, instead of immediately washing and changing, he sat on the bed for a long moment and held the garment pressed to his face, breathing in and out slowly and blinking back a few tears. Then he stood, smiling and still hugging the clothes to his chest as he shrugged off his pelts.

* * *

 

Hog spent the next day in a kind of fugue of tension, his ears pricked for the sound of manic giggling, eyes glancing up from his forge to scan the doorway so frequently that he nearly smashed his fingers with a misplaced hammer. Finally he gave up, setting his tools aside with a frustrated snort, hitched his trousers up and made his way into the palace. He ducked into the kitchen through the servant’s passage, getting a few startled looks from the newer staff and nods of recognition from the older ones. Junkrat was nowhere to be seen, so Hog settled onto a sturdy chair in the corner to wait. The kitchen bustled with activity and gossip around him, and he listened carefully as he sipped at the mug of sweet tea one of the maids handed him.

Soon enough the talk turned to the mysterious stranger who had appeared all three nights at the ball and then vanished. Conjecture as to who he could have been abounded: a foreign prince, a long-lost knight errant, a fairy in disguise (Hog choked on his drink at that last one).

“I was serving all the way down at the far end of the ballroom,” one man lamented as he scoured a pot. “Didn’t barely see anything. Did they really dance all night?”

“Not hardly,” snorted Lena, the serving girl who had brought Hog his tea. “Prince Hanzo hates dancing. Says it’s undignified, though Prince Genji claims it’s cos he’s got weak ankles. No, they danced only briefly, but then they sat together and spoke for _ages_. And then Hanzo took the stranger’s hand and led him _upstairs_ ,” she waggled her eyebrows at the implication, grinning cheekily. Hog set his mug down before he could crush it in his grip, his stomach churning.

“The last I heard, the stranger disappeared again and the prince is absolutely frantic trying to find him!”

Hog tried to tune out the rest of the conversation. Thankfully he was spared any further details when, a moment later, Junkrat came shuffling into the kitchen with a cough and a string of expletives, dragging a sack that squirmed suspiciously in his grasp and emitted distinctly rodentlike sounds. He placed the sack on his cot, turned and caught sight of Hog. He perked up immediately and offered his hulking friend a huge crooked grin, straightening slightly and adjusting his pelt with one hand.

Before either of them could speak, there was a clatter from above, and a gaggle of servants came flying down the stairs into the scullery like they were being chased by demons. “Look busy! Prince Hanzo is coming!” One of them whisper-shouted.

This announcement was greeted with a number of panicked responses.

“Wait, he’s coming _here_?”

“Now?!”

“Is he angry? Has he executed anyone? Is he coming to execute one of us?”

“Well, how should I know? Just scrub something!”

Hog snorted and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. Junkrat glanced around and grabbed for the rake by the hearth, hunching over as he began sweeping the ashes into a pile.

Moments later, the prince came sweeping down the stairs, his eyes wild and his jaw set in a firm, determined jut. His usual coterie was a few steps behind him, hurrying down the steps after him in a confused frenzy. Prince Hanzo stormed through the kitchen, staring hard at the face of every young servant and cook. His eyes skipped over Hog as if he were part of the furniture, skipped over Junkrat as he poked at the fire. He halted. Turned.

“You,” the prince’s voice rang out like a solemn iron bell. “Who are you?”

Junkrat twitched, looked over his shoulder at him and offered a nervous grin. “Who, me?” He shrugged, turned back toward the cinders in the fireplace. “Just a lowly rat.”

Hanzo’s frown deepened, his head tilting thoughtfully as he stared at the half-crouched, filthy figure.

Hog wanted to look away. He knew exactly how this would go; the handsome prince would see past the grime and the raggedy disguise and find his One True Love underneath, sweep him away to a life of idyllic bliss. The perfect fairytale ending. He felt sick.

The pause stretched out uncomfortably, Prince Hanzo fixated on Junkrat, the kitchen staff looking on in near-paralytic fascination, the courtiers hovering nearby and Prince Genji leaning against the doorway with an expression of glee. Hanzo’s gaze travelled from Jamison’s smudged face to the stump of his right arm, the clumsy shape of his peg leg, briefly passing over the squirming sack of rats with a look of horror before jumping back to Junkrat’s sooty form. Finally, he shook his head, as if recollecting himself, gave a dismissive snort, and strode back up the stairs without another word. The courtiers followed in a flurry of swirling robes and the younger prince brought up the rear, shooting a last glance of incredulity at Junkrat.

The servants all slowly relaxed when it became apparent that the prince was not coming back, looking at one another in amazement and murmuring speculation as to what was happening and what was going to happen. Junkrat, meanwhile, let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping under his furs. Hog stood up from his chair, taking a step forward and reaching out one hand cautiously, ready to comfort his no doubt heartbroken friend. In the back of his mind, he was seething with rage at the haughty prince, at his ignorant blindness to the treasure in front of him.

His fingers had barely brushed over Junkrat’s shoulder before the smaller man flinched away, clutching his coal rake. He glanced up at Hog, a slight tremor running through his lanky form, and nodded at the door. “You should go, mate.”

Hog frowned, not liking the shakiness of Jamison’s voice. “I-“

Junkrat swatted at his hovering hand, weakly, with his right arm. “Go on.”

Several of the staff were staring in open confusion and alarm at the two of them by then, so Hog reluctantly nodded and stepped back, lowering his arm. Junkrat ducked his head, curled his spine to make himself small as he went back to his work, and everything inside of Mako ached at the sight.

He ducked out the door and trudged back up the hill, past the stables and the laundry lines, toward his forge. In the distance, he could see the line of carts and coaches making their way from the palace, the visiting royals and nobles heading back to their kingdoms and countries.

He shut the door of his home and sat heavily on the edge of his bed, leaning down to pull a well-worn basket from underneath it. He dug through it, shifting aside a pair of heavy shears and a pincushion to run his thick fingers over the scraps of fabric remaining at the bottom; pale cream-colored silk, inky satin and gold lace. His hands were rough against the smooth threads, and he sighed.

There was a call from outside, a familiarly jarring voice shouting his name.

Mako stood slowly, setting aside his sewing basket, and stuck his head out the door to see a big, ornate carriage with a messy orange paint job that made it look like a pumpkin, pulled by a pair of well-groomed Ardennes and driven by—

“Hi,” said Junkrat, grinning from ear to ear. He clutched the reins in two hands: one flesh and one covered in a shining golden glove.

Hog stared at him. Junkrat’s grin shrank by a few teeth and he cleared his throat. “Right, maybe didn’t think this through as well as I might’ve,” he muttered.

“What’re you doin’ here,” Hog grunted gruffly. “Prince Fancypants is still looking for you.”

“Yep!” He giggled nervously, tugging at the hem of his pelt cloak with one hand. Underneath it, instead of his usual dirty bandages, he wore the handmade binding harness from the third costume, gold brocade peeking out incongruously from under fur and soot. “Good job he didn’t recognize me; he’s probably still pretty angry at me for hittin’ him over the head and stealing a bunch of his stuff from his hoity-toity bedroom.”

There was a pause.

“What,” said Hog.

He gestured at the carriage. “Well, how d’you think I paid for all this?”

Hog looked the whole ensemble up and down. “Stole it?”

“Ahaha, heh, okay, yes, but I did pay for the horses.” Jamison declared earnestly.

Hog cocked his head, drew a deep breath and released it slowly. This was apparently not the enthusiastic response Junkrat had been hoping for, because he dropped the reins and clambered onto the side of the carriage like a spider, still babbling.

“Would’ve been ready to go earlier, but I had to grab this beauty on me way!” He leaned down and opened the carriage door to reveal a flat-snouted face peering out from the interior. Pai grunted happily at Mako, who was gaping in shock. Jamison fiddled with the detailing on the door as he continued, “Hid ‘im in one of the storerooms the night before the ball, with a bit of help from one of the cooks.” He snorted. “That poncy prick didn’t even notice there was no pork on the damn table.”

Mako stepped forward and reached out to rub Pai’s hairy chin, eyeing the plush cushions inside the carriage and the items strewn across them: a gold chalice, a magnificent crown, several bottles of expensive alcohol, a jade comb and a scattering of coins and gems. On the far seat, folded neatly, were the three costumes.

“So, eh…” Junkrat shut the door, swung back into the driver’s seat and drummed his fingers against the reins, his eyes darting about. “Wanna come rampaging with me? Hop kingdoms, steal shit from rich idiots, set everything on fire?” His anxious gaze found Hog’s, orange eyes hopeful.

Mako flushed. “Why me?”

“Aw, come on, mate, don’t make me beg.” Junkrat grinned his nervous grin and held out his gloved right hand, waggling his eyebrows. “It’s you or no one.”

Hog would have liked to scoff at the sappiness of the line, but he was busy covering his face with one hand to hide the fact that his cheeks were on fire and he had been rendered speechless. With his other hand, he reached up and gently grasped the offered limb, climbing up onto the seat beside him. The carriage tilted briefly under his weight, then settled on its axle without protest. Junkrat was beaming so hard his face looked fit to split in two, staring up at Mako with stars in his eyes.

“How’d you know it was me?” Hog asked, voice a low rumble.

Junkrat cackled, kicking his legs against the front of the cart. “I ain’t stupid, Hoggywog.” He wiggled the jointed digits of the gloved mechanical arm, which, Hog realized, he was still holding. “Only one person I know could make somethin’ like this.” With his left hand, he gave the reins a shake, sending the horses into a brisk trot. He fidgeted in his seat, watching Hog out of the corner of his eyes, and then in an apparent burst of daring he leaned up and planted a giddy kiss against the blacksmith’s cheek. He plopped back down, giggling furiously and pulling the hood of his cloak down over his face. “Sorry, sorry, couldn’t resist.”

Mako rasped out a stunned chuckle, turned in his seat and used one finger to brush the hood back as he bent down and kissed Jamison full on the mouth. “Good,” he said as he leaned back. “Let’s go.”


End file.
